Richard Chizmar - Gwendy's Magic Feather

“I’ve got eyes on a single male subject,” the radio squawks, and Gwendy can picture Sheriff Ridgewick sitting in the driver’s seat of his cruiser, squinting through a dirty windshield. “Check that, two male subjects in the garage. Second man’s working under the truck.”

“Copy that. We’re in position out back.”

“All good at the fence line. He comes this way, we got ’em.”

“Approaching subjects now. Detective Thome is at my twelve o’clock blocking the driveway. Stand by.”

Three-and-a-half minutes later: “Warrant has been served. Both subjects cooperating. Detectives entering the residence. Stand by.”

The radio goes mostly silent then. Someone requests a new pair of gloves be brought inside the house. Another officer asks if he and his men should continue to turn away traffic at the intersection. Deputy Portman responds in the affirmative.

Gwendy pulls in a deep breath, lets it out. Sheila takes a bite of her donut and stares intently at the radio monitor, the expression on her face unchanged.

“How in the world are you so calm?” Gwendy asks, breaking the silence. “I’m dying over here.”

Sheila gives her a dry look, smudges of white powder stuck in the corners of her mouth. “Twenty-five years on the job, honey. Seen and heard it all by now. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen!” She takes another bite of donut and continues with her mouth full. “I’ll tell you this, though… if you don’t stop chewing on those nails of yours, you’re gonna have to walk across the street to the drugstore in about five minutes and buy yourself some Band-Aids.”

Gwendy lowers her pinky finger from her mouth and crosses her arms like a sullen teenager.

“Sheila, come back,” the radio squawks.

She wipes powdery fingers on her blouse and keys the mic. “Right here, Sheriff.”

There’s a crackle of static, and then: “I’ve got a message for our visitor.”

“Roger that. She’s sitting right next to me gnawing on her fingers.”

“Tell her… we got our man.”

“TURN IT UP, GWEN,” her father says, sitting down on the arm of his recliner. He’s staring at the television screen with rapt fascination.

“I’ll be making a few brief comments,” Sheriff Ridgewick says into the tangle of microphones set up outside the stationhouse, “and then I’ll hand it over to State Police Detective Frank Thome to answer any questions.”

He flips open a notepad and starts reading. “Earlier today, the Castle County Sheriff’s Department and the Maine State Police executed a search warrant on a residence located at 113 Ford Road in northern Castle Rock. A number of personal items belonging to Rhonda Tomlinson were discovered under a loose floorboard in one of the bedrooms. After interviewing multiple residents of the home, a suspect, Lucas Browne, age twenty, was placed into custody. After receiving permission from the owner of the residence, Charles Browne, age fifty-nine, to search a family-owned cabin located near Dark Score Lake, officers discovered fourteen-year-old Deborah Parker shackled and unconscious inside the cabin’s dirt cellar. She has been reunited with her family and is currently receiving medical treatment at a local hospital.”

The sheriff looks up from his notepad, the dark circles under his eyes telling the rest of the story. “After an extensive search of the property surrounding the cabin, officers were able to locate the remains of Rhonda Tomlinson and Carla Hoffman buried a short distance away. Both families have been notified and the victims’ remains will be transported to the Castle County Morgue in due course pending further investigation. Lucas Browne has been charged in the abductions and murders of Miss Tomlinson and Miss Hoffman and the abduction and torture of Miss Parker. Additional charges are pending. Lucas Browne remains in custody at this time at the Castle County Sheriff’s Department. Detective Thome will now take your questions.”

Sheriff Ridgewick steps away from the makeshift podium and stares down at the ground.

“Well.” Mr. Peterson sighs. “Far from a happy ending, but it’s the best we could’ve hoped for I suppose.”

“Those poor families,” Mrs. Peterson says, making the sign of the cross. “I can’t even imagine what they’re going through.”

Gwendy doesn’t say anything. The last eighteen hours have been a whirlwind—and her brain and body are still struggling to recover.

Earlier in the afternoon, the sheriff confided in her with great detail the horrors they’d discovered inside the Brownes’ house and cabin: a pair of Ziploc sandwich baggies found under a second loose floorboard in Lucas’s bedroom, the first containing assorted jewelry belonging to Lord-knows-how-many-women, and the second baggie containing fifty-seven teeth of various shapes and sizes. In the cellar of the cabin, they found a macabre toolkit consisting of a selection of bloodstained pliers, an electric drill, and several power saws. Gwendy wondered how long it would take for the press to get hold of this information.

“Good for Norris Ridgewick,” Mr. Peterson says, still staring at the television. “About time the people in this town gave him his due.”

Gwendy’s cellphone rings. “I better take this.” She gets up from the sofa and walks into the kitchen. “Hello?”

“Got a minute?”

“Were your ears burning, Sheriff?”

“Every day for the last two weeks,” he says, wearily.

“We just watched a replay of your press conference. You did well.”

“Thanks.” He pauses. “I still feel strange not mentioning your part in the investigation. Feels wrong to get all the credit.”

“I figure a lot of that credit is overdue around here.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would.”

“I do have one question for you.”

Here it comes. “What’s that?” she asks.

“I know the whole dental school thing tipped it off for you. And the cowboy boots. But how did you really know?”

Gwendy doesn’t answer right away. When she does, her words are carefully chosen and as honest as she can make them. “It was just a strong… feeling. He gave off this seriously cre